


Bits and Pieces

by ElloPoppet



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mosaic, Peaches and Plums (The Magicians), Reunions, Underworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Eliot had always figured that when death took him, he would meet darkness on his way to the Underworld. Darkness, or faces from the past perhaps.He never for a moment expected the mosaic.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 95





	Bits and Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to tag major character death, as this short lil fic takes place directly following Eliot's off-page death. There is no description of character death in the fic. 
> 
> I wrote this for purely selfish and catharsis-driven reasons. That said, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading :)

It surrounded him, wrapping around him on all sides. The colors swirled together as he remembered them, the patterns bleeding and ever changing as they engulfed him.

Eliot had always figured that when death took him, he would meet darkness on his way to the Underworld. Darkness, or faces from the past perhaps.

He never for a moment expected the mosaic.

The familiarity of it struck him. This version of the sonofabitch was different, of course; other-otherworldly, fluid rather than square and solid, but he knew that whatever ethereal manifestation of the mosaic was leading him to his afterlife was the same one that he had held in his hands thousands of times, a lifetime ago. It was intimate, the experience of his soul, his magic itself being carted away by the backdrop of the happiest lifetime that he had simultaneously ever and never lived.

His body in Fillory, his spirit wrapped tightly in the mosaic, Eliot closed his eyes and waited to see where he would land.

How long he waited, it was hard to tell. Mere moments, perhaps, or centuries back home. In the blink of an eye the mosaic rested beneath his feet, solidifying, and for the longest time all Eliot could do was stare at it. He marveled at the pattern that he had never gotten to see, the full puzzle with every piece snapped into place. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes; it was a beautiful monstrosity. He cursed it even as his heart expanded in his chest. It was funny, what he could feel even without a body intact. 

The spell of the mosaic was broken by the feeling of a warm breeze on his neck, ruffling the curls of his hair and grounding him back into whatever fresh hell this new reality was. Eliot took his time taking in his surroundings, watching with interest as they formed around him, seemingly out of thin air, shimmering into place like a mirage. 

Directly in front of him, he saw a crystal clear lake, blue and sparkling, with a white sand beach and thick forest lands sprawling behind it. This wasn’t their home, then, not where the mosaic had lived. Not where their family had grown old together. 

Eliot’s not-a-heart gave a painful tug. The Underworld was shaping up to be a lot like he had imagined hell to be (isolation, painful reminders, continued everlasting grief), just with a few coats of paint and some elbow grease.

At least, that’s what he thought. If Eliot had learned, truly absorbed one piece of information from Brakebills and Fillory following, it was that there was a metric fuckton that he was capable of being absolutely _wrong_ about.

“Eliot Waugh?”

The voice was playful, the questioning tone overdone, the speaker knowing _exactly_ who Eliot was, and the pain _hope_ disbelief that rushed through Eliot’s being was more terminal than his death had been. It took a lifetime’s worth of energy bred from heartache and goddamn _anguish_ for Eliot to turn around, to turn toward that voice, to open his eyes. 

He was greeted by the sight of Quentin, sitting upon the steps to the Physical Kids’ Cottage, leaning back on his elbows as though he’d been nonchalantly passing the time outside on a nice Spring day. He looked healthy, his hair long and shining in the sun, a smile on his face and laughter dancing in his eyes. He was whole, and he was _right there_ , and Eliot was more afraid than anything to approach him, to touch him, because death could not be so merciful. 

Eliot did not speak; he couldn't. He chose instead to watch as Quentin stood, the wind blowing his hair wild. He watched as Quentin reached behind his back and produced something small enough to nearly hide in his palm; Eliot had only a fraction of a second’s warning in the form of Quentin cocking his eyebrow before he was being tossed the whatever-it-was and he caught it, turned it over in his hands. 

A peach. 

A sob wracked his body then but oh, Quentin’s arms were there and he was warm, his fingers tucking errant strands behind Eliot’s ears, thumbs drying tears as fast as they fell, lips with the lingering taste of lost time pressing soft kisses to his mouth, his jaw, his eyelids. 

Soon, it was twilight in the Underworld. The lake was black rather than blue, and the tiles of the mosaic were indiscernible in the fading light. They hadn’t spoken, had barely moved, but Eliot had calmed and Quentin laced their fingers together, tugging him toward the cottage. 

“You’re right on time,” Quentin whispered, smiling. “Follow me.”


End file.
